


Unremarkable

by 221b_hound



Series: Unkissed [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Honeymoon, John thinks he doesn't., Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Sherlock thinks John has them.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 19:51:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2163033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A honeymoon in Spain. John is very clever at ensuring Sherlock is not bored. Sherlock is a bit irritated that John seems to underrate himself. There are bees, crimes, red speedos, lectures on false modesty, and many many kisses under the Spanish sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unremarkable

**Author's Note:**

> Atlinmerrick commented in 'Unforgettable' that it was a bit sad that John doesn't think he is remarkable. My thought was always that John has a healthy sense of self regard but, like many people of character, has no real appreciation that he might be considered something more by the people he knows. So I figured that the honeymoon was a good time for Sherlock to broach the subject...

Morning sun spilled in through the window of the hotel room and painted a block of pale skin and, next to it, skin of golden brown, made honeyed by the Spanish sun, with light. John’s sun-browned hand was stroking a soft line down Sherlock’s milky spine and Sherlock stretched like a cat under the caress.

“Pookie,” murmured John, the tip of his index finger flowing over the bumps of Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock, either only half awake or pretending to be as he lay on his stomach, hummed a sleepy-happy response.

“Lollipop,” John said, lazily taking Sherlock’s hand and lipping at his fingers, “Jellybean. Gumdrop. Honeydumpling.”

“Ridiculous,” mumbled Sherlock into the bedding, but his body did that wonderful wriggle, responding to the names even when Sherlock’s words refused to.

“Sunbeam.” John continued to kiss Sherlock’s fingers, moving onto his palm, the back of his hand, his wrist. “Sunflower. Firefly. Lovebug. Snugglebum. Cuddlebunny. My precious thing. Beautiful boy.”

The kisses made a line up Sherlock’s arm, to his shoulders and Sherlock wriggled and sprawled, spreading legs and arms akimbo on the bed.

John giggled. “ _Starfish_. Little minnow.”

Sherlock grinned into his pillow.

If anyone had ever asked Sherlock Holmes even two years ago whether he would ever willingly go on a holiday to Spain, and _enjoy_ it, he would have laughed in their face. Derisively. Possibly with extra sneering and a free character reading to boot.

Yet here he was. On holiday. In Spain. On his _honeymoon_ , in fact. And _loving every minute_ of it.

*

To be honest, Sherlock’s first impulse when John suggested the trip was to be a bit scathing and more than a bit sceptical. “What on earth would we _do_ , John?”

“We’d visit apiaries, of course,” John had replied, a little wounded, “There are cave paintings in Valencia about the first beekeepers, though you know that. We could go up to Basque Country too. Not for the whole trip. Some the time I could get in some swimming and get a tan again; and we can catch up on our reading.”

“You’ve thought about this.”

“Of course I’ve thought about this, you numpty. It’d only be for a week; ten days at the most. We’d both be bored out of our gourds if we tried to be away longer than that. I just thought… look, never mind. If you hate the idea, I won’t waste the money.”

Sherlock had peered at John, frowned, and then thought: _what’s a week? It will make John happy. And there will be bees. And I can always get Greg to text me cases._

“Book the tickets,” he said.

John gave him a look of puzzled suspicion. “But…”

“Book,” said Sherlock in a voice like lazy summer heat and melted honey, and kissed John’s mouth, “The tickets.” Another kiss. “I want.” _Kiss_. “To kiss.” _Kiss_. “Your tan.” _Kiss._ “From your.” _Kiss._ “Trapezius.” _Kiss._ “Down to.” _Kiss_. “Your iliac crest.” _Kiss_. “In warm.” _Kiss._ “Spanish “ _Kiss._ “Sunlight.”

Sherlock could still be a complete arse sometimes, but he was much better now at knowing how to make up for his offences.

Once John got his breath (and the larger part of his higher brain function) back, he booked the flights, the hotel and the hire car to visit the rural apiaries.

And here they were, on Day Six of their eight-day honeymoon, and Sherlock had not been bored, not once.

They had visited Valencia’s Spider Cave paintings, evidence of some of humanity’s first beekeepers. They had driven to Basque Country to spend a day exploring the different beekeeping methods from the area, including some conical straw hives at the last apiary to use the method. Sherlock had spent hours at museums and local apiaries, buying up books of Spanish beekeeping history and practice in Castilian, Catalan and Basque.

Sherlock had bought honey from each location and every flat surface of their hotel room was now covered in odd little experiments that Sherlock was conducting with the stuff. Blind taste tests; scent tests; notes on colour variations in different temperatures and in different light; the preservative effect of honey on a variety of organic items.

Some days and nights this week, the nominally flat surfaces used had included John’s stomach, his wrist, his nipples and his suprasternal notch, and the experiments rather more carnal in nature. On other days and nights, those surfaces had been Sherlock’s. They had painted honey stripes on each other with dancing fingers, and licked each other clean again with tongue and lips. John had very much enjoyed orgasms on two separate occasions as a result. Sherlock had very much enjoyed helping John to have them.

*

The closest the honeymoon came to disaster was on Day Four. Sherlock had spent a fractious night unable to sleep, his mind suddenly over-revving with the need to engage with a problem more biting than how many laps of the hotel pool he could swim on only one held breath. (Two and a half. It was a short pool, and he had a long, powerful stroke and since he generally swam only after sundown to avoid burning, the pool was not crowded.)

But then John proved he had a positively military skill at planning time off for his honeybee. First, he engaged Sherlock in deducing everyone else in the breakfast room (at the same time solving a series of thefts from the storeroom that nobody had even noticed were occurring yet, and sparking a rather spectacular row in the middle of the dining room when Sherlock advised the Polish waitress that the hotel manager was not only already married but had two other lovers on the side).

And when all that was done and Sherlock was rolling his eyes at how inexpressibly tedious it all was, a courier arrived and thumped a box onto the table.

John refused to say a word. He just sat back and grinned while Sherlock deduced that a) John knew he’d get bored at around this point, b) John had arranged, via Mycroft, for the Valencia branch of the _Cuerpo Nacional de Policía_ to bring them a selection of cold cases and c) John therefore not only didn’t mind but was actively encouraging him to _work_ on their honeymoon.

At that point, Sherlock was not certain how it was possible to love John more than he already did, but somehow he managed it.

So Day Four and half of Day Five were spent in running about Valencia, talking to people (well, Sherlock did the talking, and also the listening when suspects didn’t realise he could understand more than ‘standard Spanish’ – John stood in the background adopting various attitudes of Do Not Fuck With Us, as occasion demanded). Three of the four cases were solved, only two punches were thrown, and the person who required a cold pack as a result was not John, so everyone (except the arrested parties) was happy.

The fourth case, Sherlock had declared an accidental death.

_Yes, I can see the autopsy indicated death by strychnine poisoning, but didn’t anyone notice the report also mentioned a cut on the victim’s finger? Didn’t anyone else see the gardening gloves with the tear in them? Or note the fact that the victim’s wife, who normally did the gardening, was visiting her sister that weekend? I know you noticed that the neighbour who had complained about the adelfa plant separating their properties had a feeble (yet the only) motive but also a watertight alibi; so why did you waste time pursuing him? Do you people know nothing about adelfa, also known as Nerium oleander, which is stuffed to the gills with toxins, including oleandrin, neriine and rosagenin – the last of which_ _acts like strychnine_ _. Obviously, the victim went out to trim the offending adelfa in a foul mood, attacked the plant with more gusto than care and cut himself through the glove, introducing both sap and bark in to the wound. And in his temper, he kept working and rubbing more toxins into the open cut. Let this be a lesson to you, John – never prune the garden while in high dudgeon. It could be the death of you._

And after this tirade Sherlock, with a bounce in his step, declared that he was on his honeymoon and should not be disturbed again for anything less than a ten. He’d grabbed John by the hand, dragged him out to a taxi and taken him out for an excellent dinner, thrumming with energised good humour.

*

John greeted Day Six by kissing Sherlock from trapezius to iliac crest under the Spanish sun (filtered via the bedroom window) and then insisted he was going to spend the day at the pool. Sherlock was inclined to indulge him in thanks for the previous two days’ entertainment.

So, after breakfast, Sherlock – dressed in pale yellow swimming shorts decorated in bees; a silly honeymoon gift from John when he realised Sherlock didn’t own any swimming trunks – was lazing on a deck chair under the shade of a large canvas umbrella. He was watching John swimming in the pool in a pair of red Speedos Sherlock had purchased for him in a sort-of revenge for the bee-trunks. Sherlock wasn’t sure it could be called ‘revenge’ when he so thoroughly approved of the result. John strutting about the pool, diving in, swimming rapid lengths, clad in red Speedos and a tan, had very rapidly become one of Sherlock’s favourite things.

Sherlock’s extremely attractive husband had begun by powering up and down the pool to burn off energy (and too many breakfasts of coffee, hot chocolate and _churros_ ) but now he was bobbing towards Sherlock’s end in an unhurried breast stroke. His hair was sticking up in wet spikes, his eyelashes clumped together.

 _He looks like a merman again_ , thought Sherlock with a fondness that was beyond all reason.

Sherlock rose from the deck chair and walked down to dangle his feet in the water. John surfaced beside him, wiping the streaming water from his face. Then he grinned and shook his head roughly, like a happy dog shaking himself dry, spraying beads of water all over Sherlock’s bare stomach, chest and legs.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at John, but John was unrepentant.

“Coming in?” John asked.

“Tonight,” said Sherlock, “After sunset.”

“You and your delicate complexion.” But John leaned against Sherlock’s leg and kissed his knee to show how much he appreciated the skin on show.

Sherlock didn’t mind the comment; and he liked John’s new tan, the honey-gold of it contrasting so attractively against Sherlock’s own moon-pale skin.

“You’d better get back in the shade before you burn,” said John.

Instead, Sherlock pushed against the pebbled edge of the pool and slipped into the water. In a flash, he had snagged John around the waist and pulled him away from the edge. John laughed and splashed a handful of water at Sherlock’s head. Sherlock ducked and dragged John under with him.

They emerged, spluttering and laughing. Sherlock took the opportunity to take John by the hand and tug him into deeper water, and then wrap his legs around John’s waist, his arms around John’s neck, and John had to do all the work to keep them both afloat.

“My little angelfish,” said John softly as he trod water, his face only inches from Sherlock’s.

“Ridiculous,” replied Sherlock, just as softly and more than passingly pleased.

John briefly wound his arms around Sherlock’s waist and kissed him until they began to sink, then returned to kicking his feet and wafting his hands in the water to keep them afloat. Sherlock kept his legs locked around his husband but let go of his neck, so he could drift back in the pool and better appreciate the sun in John’s hair and the glint of sunlight off their rings.

“In Manchester, when I dreamed you were a merman,” said Sherlock, “I was drowning and you saved me.”

John just smiled.

“When we met that first time at St Bart’s,” Sherlock continued, voice thrumming with feeling, “It was the same. I didn’t know it at the time. But I was drowning. And you saved me.”

John’s gentle smile widened. “And you, me. You beautiful thing. Now get out of the sun before you fry.”

“I don’t burn quite as fast as that, John.”

“Maybe not. But if we get out now, I can put sunblock on you. Here in front of the whole of Spain.”

“There are eighteen people out here, John. It’s hardly the _whole_ of Spain.”

“Some of it, then. I can cover you in sunblock and rub your hands and your feet and eighteen people in this honeymoon hotel will see and no-one will mind that I’m showing you off. You won’t mind, will you?”

“No,” Sherlock agreed.

Sherlock wasn’t used to John being quite so publicly demonstrative, but he liked it. And he liked it that other people saw John demonstrating his care for him. He _liked_ that he was so obviously loved. And by wonderful, golden, beautiful John.

Sherlock was as surprised as anybody that he clearly wasn’t going to get tired of this being in love lark any time soon.

They swam to the edge of the pool and clambered out to make their wet and dripping way to the shade umbrellas. Sherlock flung a large towel around his own shoulders and flopped down on the deck chair, still damp. He watched John vigorously dry himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw the pool attendant look in their direction; saw him peer intently at John’s back, then look hurriedly away.

_Idiot. Look closer and you’ll see the scars on me, too. You think they’re ugly. You are wrong._

Sherlock didn’t think the scars were beautiful, either. They were simply part of them, now. Marks of the lives they’d lived, the choices they’d made. Some were badges of desperation, and some of nobler mishaps. _John bought lives and a war medal with his scar. I bought more time to save John with mine. What worthwhile thing have you ever done?_

John seemed to have a sixth sense for those looks of curiosity/embarrassment/pity even when it seemed he couldn’t see the person giving them. The scar of the entry wound at the top left of his chest was small and round and easily overlooked, but the scar of the exit wound was large. It left a dent in John’s skin, and sprawled like a misshapen starburst above his scapula. At home John never spared it a thought. But looks like the one the pool attendant gave him made him sigh with suppressed irritation.

John sat on his own deck chair and reached for the container of SPF45 sunscreen. He popped the lid and poured a generous dollop into his hands. “Dry your face, sweetheart. We need to preserve that work of art.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “My face is not…”

“Shush,” John admonished him, “Don’t go criticising the face I spend most of my time looking at. I’m very fond of it and I don’t want to spend the next week watching it being bright red and peeling. Besides, one of us should be pretty. It gets us free drinks at the bar.”

Sherlock scowled at John.

“Yes, yes, you think I’m a bit of all right,” laughed John at the expression, “It’s not fair, though. You get to be the genius _and_ the pretty one.” He leaned close and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Still. I get to punch the pricks who think they can lay a finger on you.” With that, he began to smooth lotion onto Sherlock’s chest with the palm of his hand.

Sherlock’s impatience grew suddenly to towering aggravation.

“You must cease this nonsense at once, John.”

“Mm? What?” John sat away, startled.

“You persist in this erroneous notion that you are _ordinary_. That you are not a wholly remarkable person. Your modesty does you no credit.”

John tried to win back the previous mood with an indulgent smile. “Well, you have some interesting views on modesty. It’s not exactly one of your virtues.”

“Don’t be inane, John. Modesty is not among the virtues. To a man of logic, all things should be seen exactly as they are. To underestimate one's self is as much a departure from truth as to exaggerate one's own powers.”

“You think I underestimate myself?”

“I have noted the tendency in you before, and even at our wedding — this idea you have that I have by some miracle chosen an _ordinary_ man to love. Your understanding of causality is flawed. _I chose you_ , John. _Ipso facto_ , you are not ordinary, and never have been. Not by any measure.”

Sherlock had John’s complete attention now. Puzzled attention, true, but John was listening.

“You believe I am remarkable – and of course I am,” said Sherlock, expanding on this theory which had been nagging at him for some time, “My mind is unique – but yours is no less so. Perhaps you are quieter about it than I am-“ (Here John snorted good-humouredly, but Sherlock let it go) “-but that makes your own uniqueness no less true, nor less evident to anyone who bothers to _see_ it.”

“And you say I don’t see it?”

“You don’t,” said Sherlock sternly, “I suppose it’s because, to you, it is simply how you live your life. You think that courage, loyalty, patience, decisiveness, strength of character and an unwillingness to be impressed by arbitrary power are qualities shared by many. Perhaps individually they are, but as a collective? To be all those things, as well as insightful, forgiving, compassionate, ruthless, protective, adventurous, and the hundred other things you are from moment to moment – that combination is unheard of, in my experience. Look at _our_ relationship. How many people, do you think, would even consider attempting to make such a relationship work, let alone succeed in it?

“They should,” said John firmly.

“But they _don’t_. John, you are _rare_. You are _remarkable_. Desist at once this appalling habit you have of thinking that you‘re not.”

Sherlock gave John a haughty glare, as though that sealed the argument, and he waited. He watched while John’s lower lip thrust out in a thoughtful pout. He watched as his husband’s head tilted slightly to one side and then the other as he considered the argument.

“I consider that I have a healthy level of self-regard,” John said after a moment, “I think I understand my abilities and worth pretty well. I was an excellent doctor and a very good soldier. I know what I contribute to the work and that you value my input as a sounding board, and as your back-up. For an ordinary bloke I’m pretty smart. I don’t have a problem with my self-esteem, Sherlock.”

“No, John.” Sherlock leaned towards him, expression earnest, hands reaching to take John’s in a firm hold, as though his convictions could be thus relayed, body to body. “What you fail utterly to appreciate is that you are not at all an _ordinary bloke_. You are centred and solid and confident, in a way that few people achieve. You know who you are, and you know what you want, and you do not let dissenting opinion sway you from what you know in your heart to be true. Additionally, you have a capacity for patience that far outstrips my own. I am a storm, at times, John, but you are the epicentre. You are a _singularity_.”

Sherlock watched his beloved lift his chin and he watched the man he loved begin to smile like sunshine breaking through clouds.

“I am a bit fantastic, aren’t I?

“ _’A bit’_? Dispense with the false modesty, John. It may have served you well in the British Army, but I have no use for it today.”

John’s grin only broadened at the admonishment.

“I am _bloody_ fantastic,” John said, “I’m goddamned _amazing_.” His eyes shone. “A different kind of amazing to you, obviously. And not half as pretty…”

“I think you’re very beautiful, John.”

John laughed, a little giggle, and nodded. “All right. Yeah. I’m bloody lovely. And you, my precious thing, my gorgeous genius, you are utterly amazing, and you wouldn’t marry beneath you…”

“No. I wouldn’t.”

“So, yeah.” John nodded. “I am. I am remarkable. Just look at the two of us. We are _exceptional_.”

“Individually and combined,” Sherlock agreed, pleased that at last John seemed to have both grasped and accepted the truth of the matter.

Sherlock’s hand were still holding John’s, and now John lifted them to kiss Sherlock’s fingers, all the while keeping his cobalt blue gaze fixed to Sherlock’s grey-blue one.

When John lipped at Sherlock’s wedding ring then kind of sucked on the knuckle above it, Sherlock inhaled sharply. “Inside,” he said tersely, “At once.”

“You starting to burn, honeybee?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said brusquely, rising and towing John up with him, “But I need to kiss you. Trapezius to iliac crest, as I promised.”

“Well then,” laughed John, threading their fingers together and leading the way back to their room, “If you need to, I’m certainly not going to stand in your way.”

Though a little standing was required, as Sherlock stripped blankets from the bed and tossed them out into their little courtyard, along with some pillows. Then John laid belly-down on the impromptu bed and sighed and wriggled for an hour as his husband kissed him thoroughly, indulgently, from his fingertips right down to his toes, under the warm Spanish sun.

 


End file.
